Andraste's Grace
by R2s Muse
Summary: On the run and injured, Marian Hawke must rely on Cullen's dubious connection to offer them refuge. The story loosely follows sometime after Trust.


_**Andraste's Grace**_

**By R2s Muse**

**A/N: Written for the BSN Cullen Forum's Cullen Origin Story challenge. **

_Disclaimer: Dragon Age and its characters belong to Bioware._

_Ferelden_  
_Dragon 9:40_

Marian Hawke could no longer contain her grimace of pain when she accidentally put her full weight on her wounded leg. They'd stopped the blood loss from the deep gash in her thigh, but without medical attention soon, she wouldn't be able to walk, let alone run as they were doing now. Although she and Cullen had managed to evade their pursuers until now, she was fast becoming a liability.

She wiped the cold sweat from her lip and took a fortifying breath in preparation for the next climb when Cullen stopped. "We'll have to find a safe haven where we can hide out and look after that wound."

"Cullen, we're fugitives and we're in the middle of nowhere Ferelden. Who will possibly take us in?"

He hesitated, avoiding her eyes, and rubbed his neck self-consciously. "I... might know someone. It's not far."

"Why didn't you mention this before?"

"It's... it's a long shot. I don't know what kind of reception we'll receive. They may be as likely to turn us over to the authorities as help us. But..." He looked down at her leg. "I think it may be our only option at present."

His obvious discomfort with this plan made her anxious and she was running out of time. Their unexpected skirmish with the Seekers, while technically a win, had left her injured and had only given them perhaps a day's head start as their pursuers regrouped. Now their lead had dwindled to probably a few hours, which meant there was no way she and Cullen would rendezvous with the rest of their party before they'd have to turn and fight. They had run out of options.

"Lead the way then."

Cullen took an immediate left off the path, leading them confidently into the wild countryside. She kept up as best she could, all the while wondering at Cullen's unerring ability to find the shallower inclines, the less brambled paths, and eventually a narrow, overgrown ravine that effectively hid them from view for a good stretch. She would never have pegged him for a woodsman. Seeing his easy pathfinding, she was reminded again of how little she really knew about him.

The ravine let them out into a thick wood. Picking their way through the dense trees was slow going and made it even more difficult for her. Cullen typically caught her when she really stumbled, but she wouldn't accept his help for long, particularly when he commented on her lack of grace.

"Nice job, Grace. Let's keep moving."

He liked to trot out the nickname when she was being particularly clumsy, which, unfortunately, seemed to happen most often around him. Today he seemed to be doing it to keep her angry and therefore focused through the pain. Recognizing this, of course, didn't make her any less angry.

Eventually, the trees opened up abruptly onto a rough woodcutter's path. She breathed a sigh of relief at the prospect of the smoother trail. Their off-road path had aggravated her injury, causing pain to bloom with every breath until she was now unable to focus on much outside of keeping one foot in front of the other.

She stepped tenderly onto the new, wider path. Now that there was room to walk abreast, Cullen fell in beside her and offered her his arm, which she gratefully accepted this time, letting herself lean on him. Only now did she notice the new tension in his jaw, where a muscle jumped from time to time, and the shadows in his eyes.

Once she didn't have to constantly watch her feet, she could see signs of habitation, downed trees, old fence posts, a mossy well.

Without warning he stopped, causing her to jostle her leg against him and hiss in pain. Looking around for the reason, she finally gathered that they had arrived.

The woodcutter's path ended at a deeply rutted dirt road. On the other side of the road stood an old farmhouse, with faded yellow paint and a chimney that leaned precariously to one side and billowed smoke. A merry fire could be seen gleaming through the bright window.

In the small plot of land before the house, an older man was hoeing a careful row of turned earth. His close-cropped hair was silver, but his broad shoulders and back were strong and unbowed. He was dressed simply in worn work clothes. He looked up from his work as she and Cullen approached, and then stopped altogether. He stood straight, holding the hoe lightly, and watched them with narrowed amber eyes.

Cullen led them through the wooden gate and stopped at the edge of the garden plot. The men watched each other wordlessly for a beat before Cullen strode slowly down the garden row until he was facing the old man. The muscle in Cullen's jaw jumped again and he held his head up proudly. Neither man spoke.

Hawke felt the urge to draw her weapons; however, she couldn't look away from the silent impasse before her. Her gaze darted between them, baffled at the invisible undercurrents.

Finally the old man said, "It's been a long time."

"It has, ser," Cullen replied, curiously using an honorific with this simple man.

The old man nodded slowly. His next words, however, were cut off by a loud shriek and crash.

They all spun around to see a woman had come out of the farmhouse, her long silver hair tied up in a bun on top of her head and a bright white apron tied around her portly middle. She had dropped an earthenware pitcher, which had shattered on a rock, and held a hand to her mouth in horror. Her face was ashen.

Hawke glanced at Cullen, but he only stared at the woman with a stricken look on his face. The woman, presumably the farmer's wife, stared back at Cullen for a moment and then turned on her heel and ran back inside the house, slamming the door behind her.

Both Cullen and the farmer seemed disconcerted as they each avoided the other's gaze. The farmer cleared his throat. "She… well, we all figured you'd died, boy. We… even gave you a funeral, after we'd heard about the Tower and all. You've given your ma quite a shock. Quite a shock."

Hawke's mouth dropped open and she wondered if she'd heard correctly.

The farmer pursed his lips in thought, an expression she recognized. "Well, you and your friend should come on in. Dinner must be ready." He nodded perceptively at Hawke's leg. "We can fix her up once she's eaten something warm." Then he turned and hurried into the house ahead of them.

When they didn't move immediately to follow, Hawke searched Cullen's face, which had become a mask of suppressed emotions. "_Not sure what kind of reception we'll receive_? From your parents?" she asked, unable to hide the incredulity in her voice.

"As you can see, there are a few additional issues at stake, Hawke," he snapped at her. He glanced again at the house, pursing his lips, and his brow furrowed uncertainly. "Perhaps… perhaps we shouldn't have come here after all." He sounded lost and young, revealing how deeply this reunion had touched him. A reunion he would have avoided except for her.

"Nonsense," she said with as much certainty as she could muster. "Everything will be fine, Cullen. You were right. This is our best option." She smiled at him. "Let's go in. They're waiting for you."

His eyes dropped at her words. "I had hoped not," he mumbled.

Unsure what she could say, she rashly slipped her hand into his. "I'm sure they're happy to see you," she said softly. Instead of pulling away, he squeezed her hand and then led her with it toward the house, only letting go as they crossed the threshold.

The interior of the farmhouse was warm and tidy, with white washed walls and a high ceiling. A spotless kitchen could be seen leading off of the spacious dining room they had entered. Down the middle of the dining room was a long table designed to feed the small army presumably needed to work the farm. Seated around it at one end was a much smaller group that fell silent at their approach.

Cullen's father stood at the head of the table and turned at their entrance. He rubbed the back of his neck and then spread his hands awkwardly. "Welcome home, son."

At his words, those at the table jumped up and started gabbling and hugging Cullen. He returned their hugs stiffly, saying very little in return. Hawke stood back out of the way so she could watch in fascination. She noticed Cullen's mother was not there.

There was an older man whose age and resemblance to Cullen's father could only mean that he was Cullen's uncle. Hawke gathered that the stately woman with the long dark braid was his wife, and the young man with curly dark hair was their son, so Cullen's cousin.

The cousin was animatedly greeting Cullen while holding his arm loosely around a lovely blond woman who notably was the only one not smiling. From their conversation, Hawke learned that the cousin's name was Roger and he worked for Cullen's father.

"And, you remember, Cara, of course!" Roger said, beaming at the unsmiling blond woman. "We married just last summer. Luckiest day of my life, it was!"

Cara merely grimaced at her husband's enthusiasm and avoided looking directly at Cullen.

Cullen muttered something that sounded like, "Lucky indeed," before he was monopolized by another couple who seemed to be related to Cara and mirrored Roger's excitement.

Finally, there was a grizzled man with broad shoulders and guarded eyes who merely clasped forearms with Cullen.

Cullen looked around with a puzzled look on his face. "Where are the Richardsons? Carl and Toby? Mik? Farrell?"

"Moved on," his father said with a roll of his broad shoulders. "Not as much work as there used to be."

Cullen frowned. "Why?"

"Blight hit us hard. Our land... Well, it never really recovered proper, even after all this time."

The room went quiet again as everyone's expressions turned grim. Cullen's father cleared his throat. "You haven't introduced us to yer friend yet, son."

"Oh, m-my apologies." Cullen looked at Hawke and flushed guiltily. "May I introduce Marian Hawke? Hawke, this is my father, Roland Martinson."

Roland stepped forward to take her hand, his amber eyes, so like Cullen's, watched her keenly. "Marian Hawke. I see. Well met, my lady."

"Oh, the pleasure is all mine, and, please, call me Hawke," she said, shaking his hand.

Roland nodded. "Hawke, then. I won't ask yet how you received that nasty wound. I'll let you both eat first."

At if on cue, Cullen's mother walked out with a large pot and without a word, started ladling stew into bowls around the table. She had recovered her composure but still looked rather pale. Her mouth was drawn down into a narrow line.

"And, my wife, Emily," he said, indicating Cullen's mother who only looked up and nodded. Roland continued down the line with the litany of names Hawke knew she would never remember.

In the meantime, everyone sat down again and then proceeded to fill in Cullen on the happenings since he'd left. Hawke sat next to Cullen near the head of the table and listened. Most of it was just local color, who married who, whose crop came in late, who gave up and moved to Denerim. It was the kind of drama she had forgotten about from her upbringing in Lothering.

What was clear was the affection and deference they held for Cullen. Seeing the way they solicited his opinion and proudly mentioned his position with the templars, Hawke guessed that he was one of the first of them to reach such a station. She kept her mouth shut on how that station had since changed for him, as did he.

She also couldn't help but observe the blond woman, Cara, who sat next to Roger, stealing furtive glances at Cullen. Even more interesting was the fact that Cara periodically directed venomous looks at her as well. Hawke assumed Cara must have slightly different reasons for wishing Cullen had returned home, preferably before she had married someone else.

Hawke felt a smug smile tug at her lips, but then chided herself for her petty gloating. Her own complicated relationship with Cullen was also far from resolved.

As the meal came to a close, they became interested in her. They warmed up to her a bit when she said her father was a free-holder from Lothering. She of course didn't mention that he was also a mage.

"Blight was also bad up near Lothering," Cullen's uncle, Thomas, said, rubbing his chin.

"Aye," Roland said. "How'd your family fare?"

"We were overrun by the darkspawn in the first wave. There was nothing left, so we fled to the Free Marches. We had family in… Kirkwall." She inadvertently found herself looking at Cullen. Their shared glance didn't go unnoticed by Roland.

"So… you've been in Kirkwall, also, son?" he asked quietly. Everyone stared at Cullen expectantly.

He swallowed and rubbed the back of his neck. "Y-yes, ser. Stationed at the Gallows."

Silence again, this time the uncomfortable, accusatory kind that made Hawke want to fidget or leave the room as they all waited for Cullen to finally explain where he'd been. But he only stared sullenly at his plate.

Cullen's mother was watching him closely. "This whole time?" she asked at last, her voice deceptively soft. "You've been there this whole time, without a word?"

Thomas stood up suddenly. "Perhaps it's time that we retire. Early morning tomorrow and all." There were mumbles of agreement and soon everyone had shuffled out, leaving Cullen and Hawke alone with his parents.

She felt painfully out of place, intruding on such a private moment, so she moved to leave as well when Cullen's hand shot out and grabbed hers. "Hawke, stay. Please." She looked up at him and his eyes pled with her. The fear she saw cut her to the quick and she immediately sat back down. He didn't relinquish his hold on her hand.

"Y-you deserve an explanation," Cullen said. He took a deep breath. "Yes, after the Tower fell, I was reassigned to the Gallows in Kirkwall. I was… I was even promoted to Knight-Captain, second only to Knight-Commander Meredith herself. That's where I met Hawke."

His mother's eyes got round and she blinked in confusion. "That all sounds wonderful… so then… why…?"

"I was transferred to Kirkwall because of what happened here in Ferelden." He took another deep, steadying breath and his grip on Hawke's hand tightened. "When the Tower fell to Uldred and his demons, I was taken, too, just like all the others, until I was the only one left. Then, they… they broke me."

Emily gasped, putting her hand to her mouth, and Roland put his arm around her, his own face grim.

Cullen gripped Hawke's hand so tightly now, she was starting to lose feeling and his knuckles whitened. Casually, she moved her other hand over his, trying to soothe him and conceal some of his distress from his parents.

The muscle in his jaw jumped as he continued. "I don't know how long it was before the Hero of Ferelden saved us. Then it took some time for me to… um, recover. I was sent to the Greenfell Chantry for a spell. When they'd deemed me healed, I was reassigned to Kirkwall."

He paused, lifting his eyes from the table to glance at his parents. The haunted look Hawke saw sometimes was back and she suddenly hated herself for making him come here and rehash this.

"I was…" He trailed off and then cleared his throat before starting again. "I was too ashamed to tell you what happened. I thought, once I had moved past it, that I'd find a way to explain, eventually, but it never seemed the right time. And, then the longer I waited… the harder it got. Until…" He broke off again with an ironic huff of laughter. "Of course, once I finally might have been ready… well, by that time, I, um, had to overthrow my insane commanding officer and was subsequently, um, court martialed, stripped of my rank, and imprisoned for insubordination for three years."

His parents sat, stunned, as they tried to take it all in.

"So that's where I've been. I'm sorry. I don't have the words to tell you how sorry I am to have caused you such grief. At one point, I would have given my life to avoid seeing these looks on your faces. For you to know how I'd… failed in my duty."

"Failed?" Emily shook her head. "No, don't be foolish. Cullen, it sounds like you've done your best, which is all we expect. How could you not know that your family is always there for you? Especially when things get bad." She smiled kindly. "We haven't put you on such a pedestal that one slip off of it and you'll be disowned."

Roland said, "We tried not to give up hope. But… all we heard was that everyone at the Tower had died. No one would tell us anything official."

"Cara held out the longest," his mother said with a chuckle. "She never gave up hope that you'd come back, marry her and take her away from all this. She's kicking herself right now that she didn't wait just a little bit longer." She chuckled again.

"Mother…" Cullen said reprovingly.

"Oh I know. You were never coming back here, least of all for her, foolish girl."

"So, why did you come?" Roland asked.

Cullen glanced at Hawke as if for permission before saying, "Probably the least you know the better. We were passing through the area when we were waylaid. Hawke's been injured and we can't hope to continue until her wound is tended. I was hoping you could patch her up and give us shelter for the night."

"Only one night?" Emily asked wistfully.

"I'm afraid it's all the time we can afford since we are already overdue for an appointment."

"Well then, it sounds like I had better get to work on that injury then, my dear."

Emily led them to a workroom that clearly doubled as an infirmary given all the healing supplies. She indicated that Hawke should lie down on the table. When she couldn't easily hop up on her own, Cullen lifted her up and then stayed at her side.

Emily peeled off the makeshift bandage Cullen had applied to reveal the pink swollen cut that ran the length of her right thigh. It had only needed some stitches, but all he had been able to do was bind it tightly. Emily tsked. "This was just about to get much, much worse. I'll put something on here to clear up some of the infection before I sew it up."

Hawke did her best to be a good patient. She couldn't remember the last time she had to heal the normal way, without magic. As a result, she'd forgotten how exceedingly slow and painful it was, even if Emily's hands were gentle and sure.

Cullen seemed almost amused at Hawke's impatience which merely annoyed her more. "Don't move," he reminded her again, "or the scar will be ragged."

"Tell me that again, and I'll give you your own ragged scar," she grumbled.

In a calm voice, Emily said, "The last time Cullen was in my infirmary he _had_ earned his own ragged scar, and a broken nose, among other injuries. I believe you had been in a fight with someone who claimed he was related to the Bann and was lording it over you. Such a temper you had back then, before you joined the templars. They taught you how to control it."

Hawke giggled, imagining stolid Cullen as a young hothead. He rolled his eyes. "They taught me how to better pick my battles," he said in a dry voice. "I still would have taught that young braggart a lesson, but I would have done it when he wasn't backed by ten of his sycophants."

Emily fondly shook her head at him. "I remember the boy's father wanted some kind of reckoning from your father as well, since… what was it? I think you knocked one of the boy's teeth out?" She chuckled. "They learned not to underestimate the farmer folk that day."

"I'll bet," Hawke murmured, marveling at one of Cullen's rare smiles at the memory.

"Drink this," Emily ordered, holding a small vial to her lips. "It will help with the healing and ensure that you'll sleep."

Hawke did as she was told. The potion wasn't nearly as vile as she expected and had a hint of whatever herbs Anders put in his own potions. It worked much more quickly, however, and soon she was yawning and fighting to keep her eyes open.

"That was fast," Cullen said.

"That's the idea. Help me take her upstairs."

Cullen scooped her up in his arms and followed his mother. Hawke was nodding off against his shoulder when he set her down on a soft bed.

"I can just bunk down here on the floor," she heard Cullen say.

"No, you will bunk with the others downstairs."

"But… it's my room."

"Not at present and not under my roof, young man."

"Mother! That's absurd. She and I have been camping together for months now. There's no need—"

"Out."

Cullen sighed. Hawke felt a blanket cover her, but she couldn't manage to open her eyes again. There was a gentle touch on her hair. "Goodnight, Marian." Then, everything went dark.

ooXXoo

Hawke awoke to bright sunlight streaming across her face. After a tentative movement, she was amazed to find that the pain in her leg had lessened appreciably in the night. She swung her legs over the side and stood up, gradually putting weight onto it. She breathed a sigh of relief to have almost proper use of it again.

Looking around, she had to suppress a giggle. The small room was dominated by a large window and, mounted on one wall, a well-used shield bearing a chipped and faded red templar sword of mercy. Piled in one corner were a variety of practice weapons, many also with an unsteadily painted sword of mercy. She easily pictured an overzealous fifteen-year-old Cullen demonstrating his enthusiasm and pride in becoming a templar.

Sitting on the window sill were rough-carved wooden figures: a knight, sitting astride a horse, brandished his tiny sword at a nearby dragon with painted wings. On the knight's shield, painted over a long-faded coat of arms, was again the red sword of mercy. Morbidly, she wondered when his fascination with knighthood had switched from hunting dragons to hunting apostates.

She shook off these thoughts, washed up quickly in the basin and then tenderly made her way downstairs. The house appeared empty until she shuffled into the kitchen.

Cullen's mother was facing away from her, washing dishes, and didn't hear her come in. Unaccountably the woman made her a little nervous, like her own mother had when she had something to feel guilty about. Knowing she was being childish, Hawke nonetheless tried to tiptoe back out again, but Emily glanced over her shoulder and smiled. Wiping her hands on a dishtowel, she turned around.

"How's the leg?"

"Much, much better. Thank you."

"Anything for a friend of Cullen's." Emily's tone placed undue emphasis on the word _friend_, seeming to confirm the need for Hawke's wariness.

"Do you know where he is?"

Instead of answering, Emily asked, "He follows you?"

"Yes, he does."

"Marian Hawke. The Champion of Kirkwall."

Hawke felt frisson of alarm. "Yes."

"There's many a person searching for you, I hear."

"Yes." She quickly catalogued all the exits in her mind, worrying that she still didn't know where Cullen was.

Emily chuckled. "There's no need to worry, dear. You're safe. Everyone's heard the story, though. How the Champion of Kirkwall defied the templars and changed the world."

"It was your son who made that possible."

"That why they put him in prison?"

Hawke swallowed, the imagined guilt becoming real. "Yes, I'm afraid so. He… he's the real hero. He saved my life."

"Then, I expect you'll return the favor."

Hawke flushed. "I'm doing my best."

Emily arched an eyebrow at her. "See that you do." She nodded her head in the direction of the back door. "He's in the barn."

ooXXoo

Hawke found the barn easily enough, which was a large building with a number of animal stalls along one wall. Once she found Cullen, though, she had a harder time approaching him. Frozen in place, she could only watch open-mouthed as the shirtless god pitched fresh straw into the stalls.

She put a hand to her flushed cheek, feeling ridiculous since she'd seen him without his shirt on a number of occasions. Although admittedly with fewer of those muscles in action. Rippling and flexing…

She was so distracted she hadn't noticed the horse in the adjacent stall approach her until it was reaching its gigantic teeth toward her shoulder. She jumped back against the opposite wall, knocking over a pail and giving herself away.

Cullen spun around and blushed. "H-Hawke!" he stammered, reaching for his shirt.

"Oh, don't let me interrupt you," she said, forcing herself to grin in order to cover up her embarrassment.

Sadly, he still shrugged his tunic over his head and then smiled sheepishly. "Just trying to pitch in a little while we're here. How did you sleep?"

"Very well. Your mother has quite the skill, particularly with that sneaky sleeping draught."

"That she does. I'm pleased to see you walking so ably. Does it hurt?"

"Not at all," she said, stepping forward experimentally and smiling through the small twinge of pain.

He cocked a skeptical eyebrow at her. "My mother is no mage, Hawke. You'll still need to give it some time. You do seem much better, though."

"Is there anything I can also do to help? You're not the one who owes them a debt."

He chuckled. "Of course I do. I always will." He paused and wiped the back of his hand across his forehead. "And, you can help by keeping me company. This chore can get rather boring." He turned back to continue his work with the massive pitchfork.

She levered herself carefully onto a nearby wooden shelf, letting her feet swing free. From there she was well out of his way and had a better view. "Is this something you've done a lot?"

"You have no idea!" he said, his voice rippling with laughter. "Even after I became a recruit, I spent every leave and furlough coming home to work the farm."

"I didn't realize you were that close with your family."

He shrugged. "My father could always use the extra hand, and it was an opportunity to see everyone and remember what we were fighting for."

"I see… coming home to see Cara, huh?" she asked before she could stop herself.

He stopped, startled at her question. "Cara? N-no, it wasn't like that. I never—"

"Nevermind. It's none of my business." Hawke flushed with mortification that she'd asked such a thing.

"Whatever gave you that impression?" he pressed, his brow furrowed in puzzlement.

"There's obviously _something_ going on there."

He chuckled. "True, Cara has never been particularly subtle in her intentions. But, she's not really my type. I'm not partial to hot-house flowers who need special attention and drama to thrive."

"So, you do have a type, then?" she teased, while her brain yelled at her, _What are you doing?_

His eyes narrowed playfully. "I suppose so. I guess I prefer a sturdier flower, one that can still bloom in adversity."

"I see." Her heart rate sped up as she panicked and tried not to jump to conclusions. "W-when was the last time you were home, then?" she asked to change the subject.

His smile faded. "The last time was about a month before Uldred's rebellion."

She sighed inwardly at her idiocy in returning to such a sensitive subject. "Do you wish we'd stayed away?" she asked in a small voice.

He looked into the distance, his eyes unfocused. "No. It was foolish of me to hide. Cowardly."

"It was human, Cullen."

"Perhaps. It does feel better now that they know." He looked back at her. "No, Hawke, I'm glad we came. Thank you."

"For what?"

He shrugged. "For… making me come here. For coming with me."

She gave him a lopsided grin. "Well, any time I can take an injury for the team, just let me know."

"And, here I thought that injury was you stumbling at the wrong time, Grace." His eyes twinkled mercilessly.

She narrowed her eyes in faux outrage at the nickname. "Very funny," she muttered, being unable to come up with a witty comeback. "Back to your chores, farmboy. I'll be here gracefully staying out of the way if you need me."

The smile she received in return, one of those rare smiles that lit up his face and made him look years younger, made it all worthwhile.

ooXXoo

Their departure that afternoon was bitter sweet. Emily had tears standing in her eyes as she hugged Cullen goodbye. Cullen extended his hand to his father who in turn pulled him into a huge hug as well.

Roland let him go reluctantly and briefly touched the corner of his eye. "Just make sure less time passes before your next visit, boy."

"Yes, ser."

"And, you both stay safe," Emily said, looking pointedly at Hawke.

"I'll do my best," Hawke said, knowing that Emily was really reminding her to take care of Cullen.

Cullen nodded at his parents. "Farewell." Then, he struck out over the back fields without a backward glance to see if Hawke was behind him.

She waved goodbye and followed, not bothering to hurry. She knew he would slow down for her eventually and he might need a moment to himself.

They walked for a time in silence, Cullen again in the lead as his familiarity with the region guided him. At last, Cullen slowed down and moved beside her. After a few paces he held out his hand. In it was a small white wildflower he must have just picked.

She stopped, slowly taking it from him. He watched her but still didn't say anything. "Andraste's Grace," she said in a neutral voice, naming the flower.

"As a wildflower, it faces many challenges just to survive and yet its beauty rivals all." The corners of his lips curled up slightly.

"Wildflowers are rather… sturdy," she murmured.

He gave her a quick grin, and then turned to start walking again. "Come on, Grace," he said over his shoulder.

She smiled to herself, tucked the flower into her hair, and moved to catch up with him.

_**Fin**_


End file.
